Glad You Came
by sentbyfools
Summary: They're in New York just to pick up her and Henry's stuff, and maybe eat some pizza and Asian fusion takeout, but Emma's getting paid partially for her last job in the scumbag's concert tickets, she's not in the mood to argue, and what the heck, might as well go. Days later, when asked, she'll say it was a "good concert," and leave it at that.


**title: **glad you came

**summary: **They're in New York just to pick up her and Henry's stuff, and maybe eat some pizza and Asian fusion takeout, but Emma's getting paid partially for her last job in the scumbag's concert tickets, she's not in the mood to argue, and what the heck, might as well go.

Days later, when asked, she'll say it was a "good concert," and leave it at that.

**notes: **cs drunk & high concert smut; canon compliant as of the end of s3 ayyyy

**warnings: **references to drug use

**this could not have been done without daphne, ali, & sandy so...blame them**

* * *

><p>Emma is pretty sure she's going to have a bruise shaped like Killian's forearm on her stomach. She's covered in sweat - most of it not her own - and water and god knows what else (beer by the smell of it, but one can never be sure).<p>

The music sounds all around them. Emma can feel the drums beat, beat, beating in her stomach, as heavy as the thrum of blood surging through her veins. The guitars meet and sizzle through the air, electric heat that makes her cling even tighter to Killian as they slip and stumble across the tiled floor. Her back hits the door of the stall _hard_ -

her head swims;

she lets out a rush of breath;

he swallows it in a kiss.

"Idiot," she laughs into his mouth. His answering chuckle reverberates across her skin when he kisses down her jaw, hard enough that she ends up choking on a curse.

She grabs his lower back, sinks her fingers into the already rising fabric, and lifts so that she can slip them underneath. His skin is as sweat-slick as hers and just as hot as she feels all over. Even out of the swallow of the crowd, she burns all over.

It's why she dragged him through the drunken, sweaty mass of people. Why the moment they were free, she twisted into him, dragged his hand to her ass and left a sloppy kiss on his lips.

Finesse is out of the question.

What she wants right now, with his groan barely audible over the music, still so loud even in this out of the way bathroom, is not finesse. She wants his fingers exactly where they are, knuckle rubbing hard swipes against her clit through the denim of her jeans. She wants him half holding her up while his mouth tears at the buttons of her sheer top in a desperate attempt to get at her skin.

Desperate, that's how she feels.

Desperate, and incredibly drunk.

The music swells just as her legs start to wobble beneath her and her hands finally push beneath the band of his jeans. The drum silences - just for a moment - and then the clash echoes right through her, echoed in her sharp cry. Freed of her shirt by Killian's eager mouth, her thin lace bra does nothing to dampen the wet heat of his mouth on her breast. He licks and teases at her nipple through the barely-there scrap of fabric - bites down and licks at the peaked flesh until she scrapes his skin with her nails fumbling to get at the belt of his jeans.

Emma isn't sure whether it's the expensive beers or weed or music making her dizzy, or whether it's just the way Killian licks at the valley of her breasts, up to the hollow of her throat and teases her skin with his teeth. He alternates between soft bites that make her body tingle, her eyes shut, and rough ones that make her eyes fly open and the blood rush, make her more aware than she has any right to be of the cool metal of his belt buckle underneath her shaking fingers and the coolness of his prosthetic palm splayed against her lower back.

Somehow the belt opens in her hands, but she has the thought - her eyes open and staring at the red walls of the stall - to push away from him.

"_Emma_," he says, all protest. Her mind and body echo the sentiment.

Her eyes meet his as he starts to push up from the wall he stumbled into. Her head swims again, she gets lost for a second in the hunger of his look. She blinks, breathes, and then pushes him aside to shut the stall door. She fumbles with the lock, laughs when it takes her only a second -

"Still got it!"

"Point, Swan. Captain Morgan, 0," Killian says. She jumps at the sound. His voice is loud in her ear, almost shouting because he's draped himself over her like a particularly handsy coat. She giggles because he's maybe drunker than she is - most definitely higher, he took about 3 or 4 more hits than she did - though his control is just as steady. The fingers of his good hand manage to undo the rest of her buttons shirt without tearing them. The part of her still thinking of more than just having him inside her is thankful for that.

"And Captain Hook?" she says suddenly. The way Killian tenses - maybe she's louder than she should be too.

The music has lulled for the moment. If she focuses, she can hear the band shouting to the crowd - but that focus is lost and drawn back to Killian when his hand slides up her stomach and pushes her bra to her shoulders so he can cup her breast and squeeze the sensitive mound roughly.

"The _Great_ Captain Hook," he corrects.

He laughs gruffly and Emma laughs too -

"Ah!"

- his thumb and forefinger tug at her nipple, she grinds her ass against the hardness of his erection, and the desperation is back just as the next song starts, fast and loud,

loud,

_loud_.

Emma can't hear what he says because she pulls her fingers away from where they were still holding the stall latch like a lifeline. She isn't sure how she manages to push away from Killian when the roughness of his touch on her nipple feels so damn good, but the moment she is facing him, she unhooks her bra and then dives for the zip of his jeans.

Drunk and stoned, he still gets the picture and while she tugs, he pushes until his cock bobs free of the confines of the jeans.

"Pirates going commando," she says - half a thought that makes her laugh while he proves the pirate in a string of very creative curses because she has already grasped his hard length in her damp palm. He jerks in her grip. She sighs and strokes slowly, her mind and vision split between the sweat dripping down his throat through the dark-haired planes of his scarred chest, and the way her clit throbs from the lack of attention; those few, hurried strokes were not enough, but if she squeezes her thighs just right - well, there is no relief, but the movement feels almost good.

_Almost_.

The touch of his hand to her bare shoulder is dizzying. Her bra hangs at her elbows now, and her shirt is a lost cause, bunched around her waist and wrists in a tangled mess that would make her lazy handjob difficult if he wasn't pulling her closer.

And that creates a new difficulty, with her hand now trapped between them, Killian's head dipped into her shoulder and him mouthing her skin along to the music - impossible, considering this trip to New York had been impromptu, the concert even more so, and Emma has yet to introduce him to the likes of "post-hardcore."

Her thumb slips along the head of his cock. She twists her wrist only slightly in what would've been another stroke, but the thought is abandoned because he bucks his hips forward to grind into hers. She drops her hand to his ass, needing purchase to search out the friction she so desperately craves. With her other hand that he trapped against his stomach when he pulled her to him, she pauses from the mindless running of her fingers through the patch of hair growing from his navel, and pushes his head up from her throat.

The sound of the music keeps fading in and out of her consciousness but when he hooks her with another needy, devouring look, this time she can _just_ hear the keyboard and the singer screaming into the mic. Killian grinds into her in rhythmic motions, almost to the beat of the song. Emma, knowing it better, keeps pace with the tapping of her fingers on his bearded jaw. They sway together, his knees almost bent into the seat of the closed toilet.

"You have an ear for music," Emma says.

He doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't hear her. Maybe he's too drunk to read her lips. Maybe _she's_ too drunk to say anything clear.

The light is pulsing in greens and reds and blues around her - maybe she's just _really_ high.

"I'm a pirate," he says, finally.

Maybe not _that_ high.

"That's not an explanation," she starts to say, was _going to say_, but all that comes out is muffled noises; she tastes his tongue, and the alcohol and smoke of his breath emptied into her in a kiss that makes her ache return tenfold.

She doesn't think.

In seconds, Killian is seated, and Emma's in his lap, both hands now clinging to the hard muscle of his shoulders so she can take exactly what she needs, kiss away her thoughts in the corner of his mouth, feel the music in the slick thrumming of his tongue along hers.

She rolls her hips, rides him as best she can at the moment with her damn tight jeans still on and her shirt and bra still knotted around her arms.

Killian bites her lip. It stings, her eyes widen, and Killian doesn't let up, shoving his hand down the front of her jeans and sinking lower and lower...

Maybe the next cry is the sound of the crowd screaming, or maybe it's just her.

Gasping out for air, her forehead pressed to Killian's as his fingers shove between the wet lips of her pussy, she tries to help, but ends up half-laughing, half-cursing at the ridiculousness of her position.

Twisting and riding the thick knuckle now fucking her with such enthusiasm, Emma crows in success when she finally holds her bra and shirt crumpled in her fists. Killian's prosthetic hand slips up her bare back. Without the shirt pulled taut around her lower back, the sweat makes it harder for him to hold her now.

Doesn't matter. Emma can hold herself.

Sort of.

Her top joins Killian's on the floor, though she's careful to drop hers _on_ his. She might be fucking in a bathroom -

"a-h _ah,_"

(her breath hiccups from the next push of his finger, deep enough that his ring drags roughly against her too-sensitive clit)

"damn it, _Hook_,"

- but she doesn't want to end up smelling like one. It's an important distinction.

As important as getting out of these jeans is. She lifts up, Killian's hand slips out of her, and without any protest (really who _would_ protest this) she pushes her jeans and thong down to her knees.

The position is only slightly _not_ awkward, but Emma's an improviser. She spreads her legs as far as she can and pushes forward until her ankles rest against either side of him and his cock is pressed right where he needs to be.

The lights are back on the walls again. Purple and yellow - Emma doesn't know when it changed, when the others left and this one came, but she knows one thing as she holds Killian's shoulder with one hand and uses the other to push his cock into her:

_they're not alone_.

Not that she cares. Much. She's been caught in worse positions than this; she knows, however, that she does not want this getting out at all. Sheriff Emma Swan does not do things like this. The Savior does not do things like this.

What Emma Swan gets up to in a concert bathroom stall with a hook-handed pirate with a penchant for making her breath catch anyway he can - a loving word and a hand held in hers, or a forceful thrust of his hips to the rhythm of a We Came as Romans song...

What goes on in New York, stays in New York.

"I know this song," Killian says suddenly.

"Oh - really?"

She perks her ears again, a hard task when she is bouncing in his lap, barely managing to hang on to his shoulder and _still_ rub her clit just the right way to build the pleasure without her losing her mind just yet.

She strains, listens,

- keyboard intro, light vocals, and then the bass hits and the guitars enter -

and Emma giggles.

"_Everyone_ knows this song," Emma says, loudly.

Someone slams the stall door a few feet down and says not quite quietly, "Fake scene kids _only_ know _this_ song."

Emma and Killian erupt into body shaking laughter. Her, because she's not a kid, not even close, and when the hell did fucking in the bathroom become a YouTube comment section? Him, because "Wasn't asking for your opinion, mate," and he punctuates each word with a roll of his hips that drag her downhill in an overwhelming landslide.

She forgets the speaker. Forgets the band earnestly screaming out a pop hit in the background. Forgets that she's trying to keep this from ending too quickly because pleasure is bursting across her vision in sparkling colours, and that could be another glow bracelet, but she chases that feeling anyway. Emma finds it easy to just close her eyes and focus only on the heady drag of his beard when he searches out her lips and the heavy pounding of his cock, so deep it almost hurts, so good that she almost wants it to if only to curb the intensity of the desire choking her ability to even think.

Half thoughts flutter through her mind that he's actually keeping perfect time with the song, and even his and her grunts and moans sound melodic with the rock backup.

Another door slam. The crowd's singing so clear now: _can you spend a little time, time is slipping away_...

Emma bows her back. She's riding Killian now, hands on his shoulder and waist, nails hollowing crescents in his skin because there's no maneuverability with her jeans at her knees, so she's steering him.

And damn this _pirate_ because she may be at the helm, but Killian is _the Captain_, and he grabs control all the same, driving the fingers of the hand she freed against her clit to the same goddamn beat of this song.

The ending of the song seems to last forever, a lifetime of moments where all she knows is the sweet intoxication of his mouth on hers and the rough drag of his cock and his fingers.

But then forever ends, and she's hurtling over the edge, the build up so intense that her orgasm momentarily blinds her - "Fuck," she grits out.

Killian's strokes lose their rhythmic quality but Emma doesn't care. The aftershocks are almost as overwhelming as the orgasm. When he comes moments later, it is only then that she realizes her orgasm _didn't_ blind her.

Some asshole turned the light off.

Luckily, before they have to figure out getting out of this position in the dark without hurting themselves, someone else turns on the light.

Emma scrambles off of him, stretches out her tight muscles, and cleans up as much as she can before pulling her clothes back on. Killian moves past her and does the same. After only a moment of trying, she gives up on the torn buttons of her shirt, ties it into a semi-decent crop top and then turns to face Killian.

"Hey, Emma," he says, leaning up against the door - and he looks positively _fucked_ worse than when his past self announced his ship the "Rolly Joger" as he carried on to it. His hair is at wild ends, his mouth is kiss reddened, and her finger marks trail from his neck down under the collar of his t-shirt. His eyelids are heavy with alcohol, weed, and the satisfaction of good sex. He curls his lips in a smirk and licks the torn skin of his top lip.

He looks fucked_,_ and utterly _fuckable_.

"I'm glad you came."

She bursts out laughing because Disney's Captain Hook may have had a perm and an awful moustache, but at least he wasn't a _complete and utter idiot._

* * *

><p>(she totally doesn't hum the song on repeat the whole train ride back to their hotel.<p>

but if she does, then it's with Killian's fingers tapping the rhythm into her skin as she half-dozes with her head on his chest.)


End file.
